


[In]justice for All

by scandalsavage



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Injustice: Gods Among Us, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Kryptonite, M/M, Object Insertion, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Sex Toys, Sounding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21879814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scandalsavage/pseuds/scandalsavage
Summary: After the fall of Superman's regime, the new world governments find it in the public's best interest to learn any and all of his weaknesses. And make life in his cushy cell a little less comfortable.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, SuperBat - Relationship
Comments: 13
Kudos: 133
Collections: Superbat Exchange Winter 2019





	[In]justice for All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Romiress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/gifts).



Despite what most people think—despite what the new world governments _want_ most people to think—a red sun, doesn’t make him sickly and weak. All a red sun does to a Kryptonian, is make them embarrassingly _human_.

That little fact came as a great surprise to the doctors and scientists and sundry gawkers sent to “examine” him in the early days.

Several died. More were injured.

Eventually they realized they would have to subdue him before entering his cage. They tried with marines first. But he killed them too. Even without Superman’s prodigious abilities, Kal El is a force to be reckoned with.

It took them so long to finally pump his cell full of a tranquilizing gas that he almost feels pity color his ever-growing disdain for humanity.

Still, regardless of how weak and stupid they are, he can’t manage to feel anything other than disgust for humanity.

Which is why it’s so humiliating to find himself strapped naked to a cold, metal chair, partially reclined so that he has a good view of how his legs are lifted and locked into stirrups. It won’t be the first time they’ve experimented on him, trying to find his weak points and, undoubtedly, how to mimic his abilities in themselves.

But it is the first time they’ve done it quite like this. Usually, he’s just bound to a surgical table and cut into. His insides examined while he watches and tries not to scream at the infuriating pinching and tugging sensations that are all he can really feel around the numbness of the anesthetic.

It’s not the first time he’s been naked under their primitive gazes. But it is the first time he’s been so… open and exposed.

It is also the first time he has woken up alone. 

The soft hissing sound of the high-security door sliding open has Kal trying to turn his head, but it is impossible to see who has entered the examination room attached to his cell. His movement is restricted by a strap against his forehead.

He doesn’t have to wait long for an answer though.

“Hello, Clark,” Bruce’s unmistakable rich voice says from just out of sight.

“That’s not my name,” he growls back.

“Your parents would be disappointed to hear that.”

“My parents are dead.”

Bruce moves into his field of vision, frowning down at him from between his wide open legs. There was a time this sight would have made Kal’s heart skip a beat. Now he just snarls at the indignity of a weak little animal looking down on him like he’s scum.

“Jonathan and Martha would be heartbroken to hear you say that,” Bruce says, resting a warm, calloused hand on his bare foot.

“You don’t get to do that,” Kal snaps. “You are the one who endangered them. You don’t get to talk about them like you’re worried for their safety.”

Bruce’s brows furrow a bit and his frown slips deeper.

“And don’t fucking touch me,” he adds before Bruce can say anything else. “Your hands have my wife and child’s blood on them.”

Anything concerned or sympathetic in Bruce’s expression vanishes between blinks, replaced with cool indifference.

His hand starts to slide up Kal’s calf, crests over his bent knee, and continues to travel down his thigh. Kal futilely tries to shake it off. The direction this seems to be going is… unappreciated.

“I didn’t kill your family, Clark. And I considered you part of mine. But I’ve lost all my boys to your war in one way or another. So perhaps we’re even—”

“Hardly. I wanted you to help me build a better world, a utopia where people didn’t have to live in fear. Instead you spit in my face and betrayed me. Again. We won’t be even until I crush your skull in my palm.”

The hand reaches its destination. Fingers graze lightly over his balls before suddenly clamping down with a vice-like grip.

It’s all Kal can do to limit his expression of pain to a harsh inhale of air.

Being this weak, this helpless, is still a new and uncomfortable sensation for him.

“You are in no position to lecture anyone about the blood on their hands, _Clark_. Your own are covered in the blood of thousands of innoce—”

“ _Innocents_?!” Kal can’t contain his disgusted disbelief. “Criminals, Bruce. They were all criminals.”

The scream that forces its way past his lips when Bruce twists his hand in an abrupt, _hard_ motion is impossible to hold back. He’s been punched in the groin by Doomsday and still has never felt anything as excruciating as the soft, sensitive organs being wrung like a wet towel.

Physical sensations are amplified a thousand times over under the harsh rays of the red sun lights. Knowing that humans feel every pinprick, and now having context for what a ‘pinprick’ feels like, Kal-el doesn’t know how humans have survived so long.

“You know that’s not true. Your regime killed thousands. You used to be a good person.”

“So did you,” he bites back with all the venom he can muster while breathless and wincing in pain. “What are you going to do, Bruce? This doesn’t feel like all the other experiments.”

“That’s because this one will be different,” Bruce answers, sounding resigned. He gives a final squeeze to Kal’s sack, drawing a hiss of pain, then reaches into his pocket.

The hunk of glowing green stone Bruce removes is immediately recognizable.

Kryptonite.

Only, this hunk of rock has been shaped. Carved or chiseled (more likely laser cut) into a 14-inch-long rounded rod, thinner at the top, thicker at the bottom where a large bulge sits a couple inches from the end which seems to be some kind of handle.

Just as what that thing is supposed to be starts to dawn on Kal, Bruce pulls another, much thinner length of kryptonite, roughly the width of a straw, from his other pocket.

“You can’t be serious,” Kal snarls, careful to keep his body perfectly still and not allow himself to futilely try to squirm away from the other man. He refuses to show that kind of weakness.

Bruce lays the objects on the stainless-steel tray at Kal’s left foot. Then he moves to one of the cabinets on the side of the room, returning with a small bottle and a pair of blue latex medical gloves.

The billionaire ‘savior of humanity’ (the one that still lives anyway) remains quiet as he methodically pulls the gloves on and sets about slicking up the implements of Kal-El’s next great indignity. Kal sneers at the way Bruce is fastidiously holds everything just high enough for him to see. That’s part of this whole thing, he knows, the performance. To make him sweat and worry. To make him feel fear.

It won’t work.

“This is what you’ve become, Bruce?” Kal tries, even though he knows his efforts to get through to Bruce are in vain. He doesn’t bother to conceal the venom in his tone. “How do you justify that moral high ground you’re standing on when you’re about to do this?”

Cold, frosty fire burns in the icy blue glare Bruce turns on him.

“What do you think this is, Clark?” Bruce asks, smiling at the instinctive angry curl of Kal’s lip at the name. “I’m not doing this for fun. Red sun rays make you who you were always supposed to be. Just another average being—”

“Hardly,”

“—and we know that Kryptonite makes you ill. But we don’t know how or if they work together or how Kryptonite will affect you internally. Can we put low dosages in your food? Will that slowly poison you or allow you to slowly build up an immunity? Does the red sun render the stone’s side effects harmless?”

“So this is all for science?” Kal scoffs.

Bruce tilts his head and levels an impassive look at him.

“Not _all_ ,” he answers evenly. Turning, he lifts the smaller rod and examines it before moving closer between Kal’s legs and taking the Kryptonian’s limp cock in a firm grasp. “This subject could obviously be explored in a variety of ways. This is also a punishment.”

“Liar. You’re going to enjoy it.”

Bruce gives him a sad smile. “Your pain won’t bring me any joy, Clark. Regardless of every horrible thing you’ve done, I still love you.”

With that, Bruce presses the Kryptonite sound against the opening at the tip of Kal’s dick, and slowly but steadily begins to work it into him.

It’s wrong in too many ways. For one, the Kryptonite definitely still affects him under the red sunlight. He feels his already disgusting, weak body start trembling before it even touches him. Then when it does, his stomach immediately begins to churn uncomfortably.

For another it’s too big. Too wide. The opening is too small, too… inexperienced. The stretch _hurts_ and the way Bruce is wriggling the length of stone in farther and farther, finds Kal holding his breath and gritting his teeth.

Then Bruce takes his guiding hand away and Kal watches in horror as the stupid thing sinks deeper on its own.

No matter how hard he tries to hold it back, he grunts and gasps despite himself as Bruce watches too, expression infuriatingly calm and curious.

“I’ll kill you for this, Bruce,” he chokes. “You know I will-- _ahhh!_... _fuck!_ \--”

The rod lodges deep inside him. Presses against something far too sensitive. The feeling is foreign and overwhelming.

“You look pale,” Bruce says. “Is the Kryptonite affecting you?”

“F-fuck… y-you.”

Bruce reaches out and tweaks the sound. Kal shouts and throws his head back.

Sweat beads on his skin and makes the metal under him slippery and uncomfortable. Another thing he’s not used to. Sweating. He used to love the taste of Lois’. Used to fantasize about licking it off of Bruce after a battle.

The thought makes him want to vomit.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Bruce mutters.

The human piece of walking trash that Kal once considered a friend, turns away again. He doesn’t have to see the larger bit of Kryptonite in Bruce’s hand to know what’s coming next.

It is not so bad at the beginning. The tapered end starts only a little wider than the breadth of a large finger. But it quickly becomes unpleasant and then painful. The progression of the unyielding stone’s girth is not as gradual as it originally appeared.

And Bruce is seemingly uninterested in going slowly, letting Kal get used to things before diving in.

Punishment, he recalls. It’s supposed to be a punishment.

“Th-this is… this is… barbaric…” He chokes on his own spit, dripping into the back of his throat.

Whatever lube Bruce put on the huge, oddly shaped Kryptonite dildo, it’s not enough. It burns. The stretch is excruciating as Bruce just relentlessly presses it deeper and deeper into him. Unconcerned by the little drops of tears crowding the corner of Kal’s eyes and threatening to fall.

“This is nothing, Clark,” Bruce grunts. “You can take this. All the people you killed, all the innocents who suffered. All the pain you caused and fear you fostered. This is a small penance.”

It feels like a fist shoves into him when Bruce jabs the rock roughly forward, forcing him to take too much, too fast.

He cries out as the tears slide down his temples into his sweat-damp hair.

He feels it hit a wall in the very depths of him. Bruce scowls and twist the toy to get it further.

“Come on, you can take a bit more,” the man grumbles.

“I c-can’t—"

It feels like it’s lodged in his throat. Speaking is like talking around a lump sitting just behind his Adam’s apple.

Bruce gives another rough, careless thrust; hard, with all his substantial power behind it. And Kal-El will deny, until the day he dies, the high, shrill scream that tears out of his lungs.

“There we go,” Bruce hums, mostly to himself as Kal heaves, trying to get air back into his lungs as he’s split open.

Everything inside him feels like it’s on fire and what strength had lingered after the sound, dissipates. The Kryptonite is leeching his health. He can feel it.

For the next few minutes he just lies there, barely able to keep his eyes open, tears streaming down his face in silent agony, body rocked back and forth as Bruce continues his assault.

He thinks it’s finally over when Bruce grunts and pauses. But then his hole is being forced even wider and the bastard twists and digs the bulbous end past the puffy, abused rim.

Kal would scream if he had the energy but he doesn’t. So he just squeezes his eyes shut and chokes on the pain.

Finally, Bruce steps back and wipes his brow on his forearm with a tired huff.

The sharp, elastic snap of latex gloves echoes through the room.

Then Bruce is at his side, gazing down at him, hate crystal clear in his eyes.

“It obviously affects you,” Bruce says clinically, rolling his sleeves back down and pinning them closed with cuff links shaped like little golden bats.

Kal wants to shove them into his eyes.

“We’re going to monitor your decline in a controlled environment to determine how best to proceed.”

Bruce pats his shoulder and heads for the door. The gesture jars everything from his sensitive skin to the chunks of Kryptonite left jammed into him.

His growl is weak but loud enough to catch Bruce’s attention.

“When-when I get out of here,” Kal-El pants, “I’m going to r-rip your limbs off o-one at a time.”

Bruce just gives him another sad smile. Says, “Goodbye, Clark.”

And disappears.


End file.
